Alexandria Redux
by C. A. LeSabre
Summary: While investigating anomalies in the gravity of an unexplored planet, the bridge crew are trapped in time. Spock makes an arcane discovery.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own the concept, characters, or world-building of Star Trek: The Original Series that appear in this story. I take credit only for the plot and whatever else I've created here (as well as all mistakes in science, etc.). I'm not making any money from this story. My only interest is to have one more ST:TOS episode out there!

**Alexandria Redux**

By C. A. LeSabre

Space. That deep blackness, perpetual night. On the bridge, the dark screens, speckled with stars, contrasted with the soft fluorescent glow of panel lights. It was late at night by the ship's clocks, the machines quiet but for the background bleeps and ticking that had grown so familiar the crew did not notice unless something went wrong. People in bed; people awake, working quietly at their shifts, restful and relaxed as they made notations and scanned controls. Spock preferred this time above all others: the sleek functioning of the ship unmarred by distress, the scientific instruments fulfilling their purpose to perfection. He felt a certain kinship to the logic of their smooth, rational beauty, a satisfaction in their perfect functioning, and his skill in commanding them. Built on mathematics and reason, the _Enterprise_ was a work of art.

It had been a routine mission. Taking new supplies of dilithium to the colonists on Dædelus 7, they'd drawn closer to an unexplored quadrant of the galaxy, but encountered no trouble. The crew had worked hard and had a rest, and were now back in the perpetual motion of their routine duties--jobs that put smiles on their faces as they passed one another and sang out greetings in the corridors. Such happy tones. Spock had noticed what an excess of emotion there could be as humans went about the jobs that had taken them out into space, where they longed to be--jobs that they loved. He himself manned his science station on the bridge in the pale glow of the instrument panel, the light blue of the screen gentle on his eyes as he ran checks and scanned the surrounding starfield. They were once again mapping a sector, looking for possible colony worlds along this edge of the galaxy to halt the march of the Klingon Empire. It was a good mission. The crew had signed aboard for just such an adventure--to be the first to step into a new land, with all the scientific opportunities this implied.

Behind and to his right, Sulu and Uhura worked efficiently to ensure the ship ran at optimum. Spock made a periodic round of the bridge, quietly observing the results. He returned to the viewer to perform a routine scan on the planets in the approaching cluster.

Odd. The jump in numbers was like a sudden small peak in a smooth graph curve, an outstretched claw, an open door. Spock looked up from the hooded viewer to study the image of the planets under analysis, the components of each planet's surface. Promising. Nothing untoward. But-- There. Just the slightest glitch, a concentration of mass where there should be none. The planets' size and density ought to yield a very specific reading; but the gravitational field suggested something different, as though there were an area the size of a compact but highly developed city that could not be recognized by long-range scans. Insignificant mass in terms of the size of a solar system, but curious nevertheless.

"Interesting," he murmured.

"What is it, Mr. Spock?" Uhura ventured.

"An anomaly, Lieutenant." He repeated the calculations to be certain: there was no mistake. However, the concentration of materials on the third planet suggested something even more interesting. After a suitable wait in the quiet of ship's night, his science probe confirmed it. "Bridge to Captain Kirk."

"Kirk here." 

"Captain, I suggest you have a look at the planetary system we're approaching now. I'm feeding the data through to your quarters. The third planet is the largest and richest in atmosphere and soil content. It also appears to have been inhabited at some time in the recent past. I would estimate that the populace disappeared no more than a decade ago. The structures they left behind would suggest that they were humanoid. There is no indication of why they disappeared."

"On my way, Mr. Spock."

The captain stepped onto the bridge. Efforts to hail the planet failed repeatedly, through no lack of creative attempts on Uhura's part. As they neared the system, increased sensor detail complemented the information of the probe to show just how extensively the planet had been developed--and how mysteriously empty of inhabitants it was now.

"It would be perfect for the Federation's purposes--if we only knew what happened to them," Kirk mused.

"Agreed, Captain."

"Are there any signs of danger at all? Disease, natural disaster, weapons of war that might still be armed?"

"None that sensors can recognize from this range, Captain."

"Mr. Spock, assemble the landing party. Choose whomever you think likeliest to make sense of this scientific mystery. I'll want to accompany you, of course."

"Of course, Captain. It's a time-honored tradition. In the annals of exploration in Earth history, the captain was often the first ashore when encountering new lands. This despite the fact that a memorable officer among their number, Captain Cook by name, was reputedly eaten by cannibals in one of his encounters."

Kirk smiled and said, "Mr. Spock, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were teasing me. Very well. Assemble your team and meet me in the transporter room once we attain orbit."

"Yes, Captain," Spock replied ambiguously, and restrained himself from responding to the mirth of Kirk's attempt to mimic his one raised brow. "However, before we descend, there's another matter concerning the planet that I need to attend to. I'll inform you as soon as I achieve any concrete results."

"Carry on, Mr. Spock." Kirk waved him off the bridge.

It was the end of his shift, and he took the data on a tape down to his quarters, while Chekov manned the science station. It was a cross-training Spock had initially voted against: Chekov was a competent helmsman, but there were many others in the science department better qualified to serve shifts on the bridge, who did not understand why a young ensign should be so illogically preferred above them. Yet Spock trusted his captain's human intuition about character; and as the training progressed, Chekov had proven to be more than a quick study. His enthusiasm and facility for the post went beyond the mere competence he exhibited at the con. He still lacked discipline, but Spock had come to appreciate the value of his exuberance, the sheer energy he poured into any task in which Spock sought his aid.

In the hours before they arrived at the planet, Spock had ample time to study the phenomenon, sending and receiving data from Chekov as warranted. He studied planetary alignment, calculating and recalculating gravitational wells. When he drew no closer to an answer, he withdrew the ka'athyra from the wall and turned to face the glowing altar in his bed-alcove, red that filled the small chamber, the fire at the heart of Vulcan contained within stone, a legendary reserve. He played softly on the strings, a lovely, ancient Vulcan tune whose origins his people had long since forgotten, in perfect harmony with the symbols of war and culture hung about the alcove, reminders of home and history. His hands drew out a mathematically perfect sequence of chords and notes that freed his mind to travel deep into the caverns of meditation. How many knew the secret behind the control? Jim Kirk had seen it, the fire--and nearly died for it. For him. On Vulcan.

"Spock to Captain Kirk. There appears to be a discrepancy in the gravitational field that leads me to believe there is some hidden mass associated with the planet. Nearly infinitesimal on the planetary scale, but significant nevertheless."

"Is the phenomenon dangerous, Mr. Spock? Precautions?"

"Impossible to tell, Captain.

"Very well. We'll achieve orbit in the next twenty minutes. Meet me in the transporter room at 2100 hours."

But something continued to nag at Spock, some clue that his mind strained to connect. Even meditation with the ka'athyra hadn't drawn it into his conscious mind. Now they stood on the transporter panels as the shimmer rose up about his eyes, that lightheaded feeling, a sudden floating suspension--and he suddenly realized why that discrepancy in the gravitational field didn't register as part of the planet's mass. In that last millisecond of consciousness, it was already too late: he couldn't move his jaw, and a moment later that final spark of consciousness was erased in the brain's protective amnesia over the process of being dissolved.


	2. Chapter 2

They materialized in the center of the city, on a broad avenue of white concrete. The buildings to either side--columnar, white, elegant--gleamed in the pale twilight, a dim dusk just at the edge of nightfall. The strengthening moonlight glowed white about the edges of Spock's shirt, bringing out the richness of the blue. Holding tricorders at the ready, the landing party spread out about the street, scanning the surrounding buildings, taking readings of steel and concrete, wood and metal. Kirk led them slowly up the street, his phaser at the ready as the science party peered into the buildings on either side, windows open and blank, many lacking even a shard of glass.

With the possibility of discovering some rare disease or the unexpected survivor, McCoy had chosen to accompany them. He walked beside the captain, scanning for signs of life. "If I didn't know better, Jim, I'd say we were looking at one of the capital cities of late twenty-first century Earth."

"I agree, Doctor," Spock affirmed. "The architectural style borrows heavily from the Greek-Deco revival. And, if I'm not mistaken, there are vestiges of twentieth-century Modernism here as well." Spock pointed the tricorder at a low building whose hollowed stone surfaces seemed roughened to resemble a rock face, circled by a wooden trellis and a complicated series of walkways. "An odd combination."

As they proceeded up the street toward an official building, a huge dome faceted in reflective metals, the clouded, dull reflection of the sky shot forth a sudden stream of brilliance--a flash that burned white across those mirrors to half-blind Spock before reflexes shielded his eyes. A crack of thunder smote the air, so loud it shook the ground and set off a rattling echo in the buildings around them. McCoy yelled and Kirk grabbed his arm. "What was that? Mr. Spock, report."

The landing party clustered close, five other men and women chosen for knowledge and skill now huddled facing outward in protective stance, while Spock lowered his arm and closed his eyes for a moment to clear them. "The tricorder registers an electrical storm. Nightfall has prevented us from observing them, but a massive bank of clouds now screens the sky. They look extensive enough to match the area of the city itself."

"You mean that thing was nothing but a bolt of lightning?" McCoy exclaimed incredulously, while Kirk said, "But the sky was clear a moment ago."

"True, Captain. I do not think it a natural phenomenon. Note how the streets and buildings still glow with no visible source of light--as though caught in a state of perpetual twilight."

"Twilight. The dim and glow--the poet's 'day at night,'" Kirk murmured. "How did that go? 'The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying.'"

"T. S. Eliot, Captain. Earth, circa 1930. Twilight was still thought to be a magical time by poets of that era--caught halfway between day and night."

"Bones, still no signs of life?"

"None but us, Jim."

The white shimmer cast a blueness about everything, an invisible pale light that suffused the air from no visible source. Distant rumbling drew worried eyes toward the indigo sky. Far sections of the city glowed momentarily white, a sheen of brilliance like the sudden flare of photon torpedoes as the lightning streaked down, accompanied by dull roars.

"You know the other thing associated with half-life, Jim. Radiation."

But that was not logical. If radiation had killed the inhabitants, there would have been some sign of the dead--if only shadows burnt into the wall from the most intense blast. Something had destroyed them, though. Spock felt as though he ought to know what it was. He had a distinct sense of the danger--that it was nothing so mundane. "You believe this city has been irradiated, Doctor? My tricorder shows no signs of it. Nothing that would prove harmful to the landing party, let alone account for the disappearance of all life."

"Mr. Spock, I was merely speculating--" McCoy looked at him and broke off. His face softened. "Sorry, Spock. I know you can't help it."

Kirk took out his communicator, flipped it open left-handed. "Kirk to _Enterprise_. Scotty, how are things up there?"

"A bit rough, Captain." Scott's voice crackled and popped through the transceiver. "We're encountering some sort o' turbulence in the orbit. It doesna make any sense. It's almost as though some force on the surface is tryin' ta propel us in the other direction. We're correcting for it. There's a bit of electrical interference with the equipment too, sir. The effect is rather like being caught in an ion storm."

"Can you get us a reading of the planet's atmosphere? We have a storm on our hands down here, too."

Spock stepped closer to the captain. "Mr. Chekov, would you scan the surface and calculate the local time? No matter how unlikely it may seem."

More crackling. Spock wondered if the others could hear it: the hints and syllables of half-deciphered words, that might sound like nothing but static to human ears. Something about "still 2100," "something must be wrong with the ship's clock," "Mr. Spock, it's still only seven-thirty down there," "Can't read you, Mr. Spock." Then, suddenly, Chekov's voice surfacing through the garble, signal to noise: "All the clocks have stopped. No, they're going crazy! Mr. Spock--" He broke off in a high-pitched scream.

Simultaneously, lightning struck across the street, so close Spock was blinded and deafened at once. "Down!" he yelled, and the landing party threw themselves to the ground, shielding their necks and heads from the flying debris of shattered stone. Kirk worked the communicator with both hands, trying all bands, shouting, "Chekov! Scotty! What's going on up there? Eight to beam up!"

Static, harsh pops and crackling. Spock got his hands under the captain's arm and hauled him to his feet, swiftly helped McCoy and the young female Lieutenant Adrian while the rumbling continued and the ground still shook. He shouted to be heard above the storm. "Captain, we must take shelter! Over there! That building seems to be unaffected by the blasts. There's machinery inside. We may discover what happened here!"

They staggered down the street, Spock steadying those nearest him as the lightning pounded down around them, striking buildings they had just passed so that lintels sheered off and crashed into dust, and columns toppled just behind. Spock fought the dizziness of the constant booming to guide them toward the mirrored dome, which shone white and metal-edged, a spire poking from its center at the sky, curiously unaffected. The heart of the storm?

But when they reached it, the iridescent doors would not permit entrance. The symbols on the keypad were, suspiciously, those of Earth: and Spock linked in his tricorder, plugging in series of numbers with flying fingers, the tricorder showing him where the matches failed. A glance behind, and the testimony of sharp ears, told him most of the tall, elegant buildings along the street had crumbled and split, spitting stones into the cracking street. The lightning sheeted down in a circle around the domed building, blasting out a moat while the landing party pressed close as they could without touching the metal sides. Kirk stood in front to protect them, still trying to raise the ship.

Something clicked in Spock's mind: the combinations that came closest looked like the mathematical progressions of musical notes, specifically a sequence in the harmonic progression of thirds and sixths in the tuning of the Romantic period of Earth. A few more minutes work, and the door slid open, silent in all the noise. A blast of cold air, accompanied by a hollow boom: Spock thought the noise came from the meeting of two different air pressures, till he heard a man's scream.

The lightning had begun to strike at an angle, aiming in toward the landing party, spewing up jagged shards of rock. One had struck Kirk in the leg. Another had caught Lieutenant Jarvis in the midsection. He lay still, blood pooling dark around him on the narrow porch of stone.

"Spock! Help me!" McCoy yelled.

"In here, Doctor!" Spock helped drag Kirk back through the narrow opening, while the others carried Jarvis. As soon as the last one entered, Spock hit the command sequence again to shut the door. It sealed tight--not a moment too soon. The clangor of rocks on metal added to the din.

McCoy closed Jarvis' eyes, then knelt at Kirk's side with his medical kit. Spock circled the perimeter of the room, then returned. Kirk's breath sounded shallow and too fast, but his eyes on Spock's were calm. Spock touched McCoy's arm.

McCoy looked up at him. "It's a broken leg. Nothing too serious, but I need to get him back to the ship. All of us."

"We have no way of knowing how the storm has affected the ship, Doctor."

"A thunderstorm can't harm a starship!"

"It can if it's an unnatural one, as this seems to be," Kirk said. "Mr. Spock, where are we? Is this some sort of command center, as you hoped?"

"It looks like more of an observatory. This room contains some of the most powerful telescopes I've ever seen, both radio and optical. There are other instruments that I suspect may have been used to control the environment, rather like the protection of a force-dome. All highly sophisticated. The extent of their power is frankly amazing."

"The storm?"

"A defensive measure, Captain. We must have touched it off by transporting here. It's curious that the inhabitants would have chosen such a device--its self-destructive nature would tend to indicate a weapon of last resort. Another odd thing--all the controls are marked in a standard English used on Earth in the late twenty-first century, and the command that opened the door belongs specifically to Earth's musical culture."

"A lost colony?" Kirk wondered.

"I'm not so sure. The telescopes are trained on Earth, but why has there been no attempt at contact? Their technology would seem quite capable of subspace transmission."

Over McCoy's protests that he lie back and rest, Kirk borrowed an ensign's tricorder to boost the communicator's signal. His repeated hails went unanswered, while the booming ring of rock on metal grew louder and higher, joined now by the occasional crystal sound of shattering glass.

"The telescopes," Spock said, then resumed studying the panels of instrumentation. Calm. Cool rationality was the key--all that might save them. Logic had to find an answer here--some way to shut down the defense mechanisms, to control the storm. Some thought whispered from the back of his mind, a conclusion he had almost reached. But the chain of logic remained broken. The facts didn't fit, not yet. There were still too many links missing.

"Is that hail, or something worse?" McCoy wondered. Spock could hear him making his rounds, talking softly to the landing party, calming them, making certain none were hurt.

The final bank of instruments ended with a viewer that reminded Spock of the library computer. Behind it, a miniature door beckoned, distinct in shape but small as a private viewscreen, bearing the same keypad lock. The door bore a simple sign: "Alexandria."

One surreptitious glance behind: both Kirk and McCoy seemed occupied. Sitting in the chair before the panel, Spock raised his tricorder to the wall to once again cycle through several possible patterns before he found the correct sequence of notes. The answer must lie beyond. Such a rational culture, that built its locks around mathematical sequences such that the passage of centuries would not prevent new generations from interpreting the codes--such a society must certainly have left a record of itself, one that existed beyond the possibility of the society's own destruction.

The panel brightened as though a door had opened onto cool, whitewashed stone.

As he felt himself falling forward into whiteness, he heard McCoy's horrified shout, "In heaven's name! Spock!" and Kirk's yell of concern, "Spock, no!" Too late. And yet he had found part of the answer, as their voices slowed behind him, and he felt himself rushing down a long tunnel, to spill his consciousness into a large, bright room. Spock stood calmly in the center of a spacious atrium, where stacks of books rose all around him, high above his head on enameled shelves. Scrolls and books whose binding and titles dated back to the early years of human civilization; metal-cased codices that looked recent, whose titles he did not recognize; thin strips of plastic arranged in rows that looked like no books or data files he had ever encountered. "Of course," he murmured, in the brightness of the slim fluorescent lights, as the thought surfaced at last. "Why didn't I know before?"


	3. Chapter 3

The library had many levels. Stairs spiraled around the curve of one floor over another, a sweep of sections like the graceful curve of three-dimensional chess. Some of the enameled metal shelves rose higher than others; some were set in cattycorner zigs like a maze, a pleasing pattern emerging when seen from above. The arrangement of subjects was so exceedingly logical that Spock nodded his head as he scanned titles and passed up and down the rows, noting the classification scheme in all its minutia of division, and finding hypothesis after hypothesis borne out about the likely progression of subjects and their repeating classification strings.

Along the tops of the shelves, thin fluorescent lights hung delicately, stretched over the pathways on small metal arches. The lights between the stacks glowed white before and after where he stood, moving with his steps like a beacon, a trail of light. Along the tops of the walls, soft display lights shone down on great canvases, some of which Spock recognized: Rembrandt, Van Gogh, Matisse, Chagall. The arrangement of the paintings made subtle commentary on the titles kept within the stacks nearby.

As he rounded a corner and reached another open central glade, with its small input station standing in the midst of the circle, Spock realized that in his fascination he had failed to notice the passage of time. He had no means of calculating how long he'd been here; his internal clock seemed to have paused. Though he knew he must have wandered at least a mile in the library without reaching an end, he still felt as though no time had passed. How did the others fare? He had to be quick, now. Spock touched the pad in front of the viewscreen. A man's face appeared, hovering above the table, partially transparent, his expression placid, his well-lined face and full brown hair marking him of indeterminate age. "Your pleasure, sir?" the image said.

"Are you the library computer?"

"I am the virtual librarian. How may I serve you?"

"Do you have access to all the knowledge contained within these stacks?"

"I can tell you where to find anything you might wish. All materials are fully indexed and cataloged. Some full text is available for preservation purposes, but do not neglect the serendipity of browsing, good sir. You may be relocated among the appropriate stacks for your subject, or at the exact location of your data, as you wish."

"Can you tell me how to dismantle the security system of this planet? The atmospheric controls will not respond to my commands. Your system is endangering a total of 428 lives--among them my closest friends."

"I'm afraid you will need a clearance for that information. It is part of the government archives," the image said apologetically.

"All those who would have such clearance are long dead."

The virtual librarian actually looked alarmed, then disapproving. The image wavered, then disappeared. Spock breathed out slowly, mastering his annoyance at the illogic of a system that would build emotions into the behavior of its central processor. He touched the screen again, and the man's face reappeared. It was unquestionably the same man: the thick brows, the round nose, the prominent cheekbones were unmistakable. But this image had a shock of white hair, and his face looked like an ill-used and ancient sheet of vellum.

"Computer," Spock said, "I must speak to your programmer at once."

"Speaking."

"Lives are at stake. I must speak with the one who controls you, who oversees your service."

"The cataloger." The image smiled, a ghostly expression through which Spock could see the stacks behind. "Step behind that door behind the da Vinci to your left. You mention death and destruction, sir. I will make an exception and speak with you personally. I warn you, my security devices can outmaneuver even the fastest Vulcan."

Spock raised a brow at the recognition and stepped to the painting, feeling carefully about its edges before attempting to lift the heavy canvas free of the wall. The motion pulled the painting from his hands as a section of the wall swung inwards, revealing a closet formed of three blank walls and a ceiling bar of radiance. It looked like a trap, but what choice did he have? Jim, McCoy, a shipful of fellow scientists and voyagers had no time to wait. He stepped through, into a sickening sensation of motion as the door closed snug behind him. No, not motion--the passage of time. The flickering of the ceiling from solar radiance to midnight blue happened so quickly it was almost imperceptible, but for the strobe effect that transformed his two hands into many as he stretched toward the far wall.

The moment he touched it, the motion stopped, a sudden lurch in the pit of his stomach. The wall slid up to reveal a small chamber, brown with natural wood, dim with the light of small standing lamps. He stepped into a carpeted room circled with carved bookshelves filled with old and obviously much-read volumes, a plush suede sofa at one end, a small futon at the other, the heavy structure of a functional worktable in between. From the archway into another room, the sound of a Bach harpsichord concerto played, tinkling and sweeping in perfectly orchestrated progression.

The white-haired man rose. "Welcome to my private collection, Mr. ----"

"Spock."

"And I am Certes. Stan Certes." He wore a long, brown sweater, out of which a high, black collar rose. "I'm the only one here, you know. I put the system together. I know how it all works. It may seem incredible to you, but building on existing cataloging, I've covered the entire collection out there by myself."

"One man? Even in a lifetime, you couldn't accomplish it."

"Ah, but no one here has just a single lifespan, Mr. Spock. I finished cataloging the bulk of this library before I reached my thirtieth year. All the rest has been incoming acquisitions, reference questions, expanded full text, preservation, improving the system--a librarian's work is never done." An impish grin hinted at a younger man beneath the weathered flesh.

"Would you mind telling me how this miracle was accomplished?"

"'All questions shall be answered here.' But first you must tell me why you came to my planet, and what you mean by saying that everyone is dead."

"Mr. Certes, I'm afraid we do not have much time."

"But Mr. Spock, time is exactly what we do have." Certes' grin was now distinctly disconcerting.

As Certes explained, Spock found himself sitting at the broad worktable in a daze, utterly silent. Time, indeed, was no object. Somehow, the people who inhabited this planet had harnessed it in such a way that the few beginning colonists formed a virtual army, repeating themselves as many times as necessary to complete the work, without apparent aging. That command of time had been instrumental in creating this library, which any citizen might access from any point in the planet's history, expecting to receive access to all the resources throughout its existence, always entering the most current form of the library in a sort of stasis, so that no matter how long the visitor remained, only a few days passed in the world's continuity. The librarian himself lived in a pod off the side of the library, allowing his virtual self and the catalog to help most patrons, but interfacing with the library physically to deal with the more difficult problems, his pod skipping along the surface of time to position him where needed to answer live questions from visitors to the library in its ideal, time-free state. He found himself delighted time and again by the contents of the library, as research requests led him to discover fully integrated materials he had not cataloged yet in his own life-line.

"We are the descendants of a society of humanists who left Earth secretly during the late twenty-first century. Their mission was to found a colony where they might develop a healthier life for humanity--one that took into account the need for compassion and understanding, as well as better ecological maintenance. They planned to keep their new world a secret until observations of humanity's progress should warrant its rediscovery. Quite a number of them came from generations of dedicated bibliophiles who were by then wealthy beyond all imagining. For a suitable donation, the government and world press were willing to keep their secret."

"Which was?"

"They removed with them not only a number of the world's top scientists and artists, but a significant portion of the rare books and manuscripts that still remained, zealously cared for by private individuals once the last of the physical libraries had been dismantled in the wake of the Universal Digital Library. Earth had by and large forgotten that the structure, the physical format, can be as meaningful as the text. That archiving is as important as access to the preservation of culture and knowledge. That books are history! They rescued some of the most important treasures from a world that was consuming itself in its thirst to recycle all available resources."

Spock rose slowly. "Mr. Certes, I admire your calling and the remarkable accomplishments of your civilization, but I must ask you to help me now. Whether or not time flows logically beyond these walls, my friends are in grave danger. I doubt they can wait several days for assistance."

"You still haven't told me what's going on out there."

Best to tell the truth at once. No amount of circling would soften it. "Your planet is deserted, sir. Aside from you, we've not located a single living soul."

Certes grew still and silent, his hands linked on the table in front of him. Spock noticed the knuckles grow white before Certes lowered his head onto his hands, his long white hair stirring as his shoulders shook, in the ancient posture of a man who prays. Spock sat quietly, observing the tapestries hung between the shelves, wanting to give the man his privacy. When Certes raised his head, his face was dry.

"So soon," he said. "I knew it would happen, but so soon? I should have read the signs. None of the visitors over the years came from beyond your date, Mr. Spock. I should have known."

"And I should have guessed what that impossible addition of mass to the planet meant. The crew of the _Enterprise _has encountered enough time anomalies by now. Forgive me. My failure has only worsened your troubles."

"But what could have caused this? What has happened to my people? A whole world, in ashes?"

"The city stood, until we entered it. But the people have vanished. Based on what you've told me, I might suggest that the strain on the temporal structure of this world grew too great. Your people may have been trapped in the between-time, a period between one moment and the next, much as mine are caught in the stasis of a world that's stopped. Perhaps the time-field suspended within the library is beginning to strain beyond its walls. The color of the sky outside matches the revolving twilight in the chamber that brought me here."

"Run out of time," Certes said mournfully. "It's impossible. But let's check the library. At one time or another, I've amassed the sum of human knowledge."

With the aid of the catalog, Certes tracked down not only his own final log--only days from his personal reckoning of the present--but also several scientific treatises whose theories suggested all the resulting problems they were experiencing now. Certes moaned as Spock explained the only thing that would halt the effect and free the _Enterprise_--destruction of the elaborate time structure that supported the library, and thus the library itself, which existed in no single physicality.

"All knowledge of the human story! I can't destroy it--it would mean destroying the world!"

"Your library is indeed destroying the world, literally," said Spock. "Come with me. Bring a handful of your most valuable texts. We must do this now, before the effect ripples out beyond your planet. Do you mean to destroy the very race these texts were meant to save?"

Certes turned his face away, the high collar shadowing him harshly. "I will not leave the library. When it dies, so shall I."

"That, my friend, would be a great shame."


	4. Chapter 4

Spock opened the door of the chamber into the building where he had left his friends. Time rushes out in a great swirl of days and nights that dizzied him past bearing. He managed to slam the door behind him, but he could not tell how much more time had passed before he managed to push off the heavy weight and opened his eyes. He lay on the floor, where he discovered McCoy bending over him, yelling in delight. "He's coming around, Jim!"

"Quickly, Captain. We must get outside and contact the ship. This chamber shields us from their sensors."

"Mr. Spock, you've been in a coma for days. You're not going anywhere!" McCoy insisted, but then Jim had hobbled to his side, taken his hand.

"Can you stand?"

"I'm fine, Captain. Use my tricorder to open the door--the sequence should have been retained in memory."

With the help of the landing party, and Kirk's command that they trust Spock and risk conditions outside, they fled the great hall and hailed the ship successfully for the first time in what McCoy assured Spock now registered as seven days. In the transporter room, Kirk commanded that the ship leave orbit at once; and despite the damage she'd sustained from battling with the planet's defenses in the unknown collapse of time, the _Enterprise _now had no trouble breaking free, as though an invisible barrier had been removed. Moments later, the cataclysmic light they'd seen below erupted all over the planet's surface, a haze of blank and blinding white. The collapse of the library, and a time-web greater than anything humanity had thus far known. A web that had cradled the past in a way that no mere time machine could ever have done.

Spock waited behind at the controls of the transporter long after the planet had passed beyond their range, till Chekov came to find him with the results of the final scans of the surface and the time effect, using the new theorems that Spock had devised.

"I'm afraid there's no sign of him, sair. Or any of his books."

Spock lowered his head in acknowledgement, waited till Chekov turned to leave before following his golden shirt down the corridor.

It was night before he returned to the bridge to resume the science shift. In the blue glow of the science station monitor, he tried to imagine what life might have been like if they'd been able to save the second library of Alexandria. His own mission, his own prized knowledge, seemed small in comparison to what the universe had lost.


End file.
